


To the Guillotine and Back

by viscidium



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Loki: Agent of Asgard, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Young Avengers (Comics)
Genre: A Day in the Life of Loki, Aftermath, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Loki Wins, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Angst and Humor, Avenger Loki (Marvel), BAMF Wade Wilson, Canon-Typical Violence, Chance Meetings, Character Study, Coming of Age, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Everyone Has Issues, Fix-It of Sorts, Flirting, Fun, Hanging Out, Kid Loki (Marvel), Loki (Marvel) Does What He Wants, Loki is small, M/M, M/M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, Multi, Mystery, One Shot, One Year Later, POV Loki (Marvel), Peter Parker/Wade Wilson/Loki, Peter is a Little Shit, Plot, Post-Young Avengers Vol. 2 (2013), Self-Acceptance, Sick Loki (Marvel), Size Difference, Size Kink, Slice of Life, Slow Build, Stalking, Teen Crush, Teen Loki, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Young Avengers Vol. 2 (2013), comics r confusing, its a rare pairing i know, loki needs a break, might as well be an AU cuz idk wtf canon is, smut?, so basically my kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-06-12 22:19:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15349962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscidium/pseuds/viscidium
Summary: “I,” Loki rumbles lowly, panting, “am not a child.”“No, you’re a thousand-year-old God-freak with daddy issues,” Spider-Man quips, and Loki snaps his mouth shut.“Am I the only one here seeing he’s literally, like, twelve years old?” Deadpool questions the open air, holding his chin with a pout. This earns him a kick to the crotch.Or, alternatively, the one where Loki accidentally bumps into two idiots in red on a mission and everything goes to shit.(A day in the life of your average Midgardian Frost Giant.)





	1. Six Cents

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! this idea came to me randomly in the shower one morning and i decided if no one else was going to write it, it might as well be me. so yeah. 
> 
> enjoy, and please tell me what you think!

 

He’s short six cents.

 

On a fundamental level, Loki knows this is not a significant amount. Six cents is a nickel and a fifth. Six cents is six pennies, each a bit grimier than the last. Six cents is what most people have drifting around the bottom of their bag, slipping out of their wallet, or tucked into the front pocket of their jeans.

 

Six cents is a steep, insuperable mountain looming before him. It hangs in the air over his head like a dark cloud, and though he brought an umbrella, he’s still splashed in the resulting downpour.

 

The rational part of Loki’s brain gave up trying to comprehend the gap between his twenty-five quarters and the six change he’s missing long ago. Six cents is all Loki needs. Six cents is his ride home — or lack thereof.

 

He’s never despised American currency more.

 

The bus driver, a round man with a face like a surly cat, is neither impressed nor sympathetic. In his fifteen years of service (according to a laminated card taped to the dash), he’s probably never had a muttonhead attempt the M15 with only a bit of loose change before.

 

“We don’t take change,” he barks, his voice a freshly chiseled name in a tombstone. High on his horse, he doesn’t bother to give Loki a second glance.

 

“Surely, you can make an exception,” Loki tries. He smiles his most charming smile, but it’s lost on the oaf of a creature, who offers little more than a grunt.

 

“Sorry. Protocols.”

 

This decidedly sours Loki’s mood. “What protocols does a _bus driver_ have?” he demands.

 

The driver scowls as though genuinely miffed by the barb. After fifteen years, Loki can’t say he blames him. “Sarcasm ain’t gonna get you anywhere in this world or on this bus, kid. Take it down a notch. I got a job to do, you know.”

 

“I shall have you know that I have all but six cents of the fee,” Loki insists. To prove his point, he scoops all $6.44 out of his coin purse and holds the shimmering silvers and coppers up for the man to see. Said man peeks at the change absently.

 

“Sorry,” he repeats, void of feeling. “No MetroCard, no ride.”

 

Someone inside the bus complains about the delay. Loki, one foot on the sidewalk outside and the other on the vehicle's steps, wishes he could strangle the inconsiderate pest. Unfortunately, that would most likely result in a fumbled 9-1-1 call, and while that would solve his transport predicament indefinitely, it wouldn’t do him much good to rot in another cell for the better part of eternity.

 

Especially considering he just got out of his last one.

 

“Look, kid, I’m sorry. I really am,” the driver is saying now. His tone suggests he isn’t apologetic in the least. “There isn’t anything I can do for you.” The implied _even if I wanted to_ is loud in the following quiet. Wind rustles a nest of leaves by Loki's feet. Someone inside sneezes.

 

Loki's chest heaves as he seethes, fists clenching. “You lumbering buffoon! If you knew who I am...!”

 

“Yeah, yeah. I’d be pissing my pants, I’m sure.” The driver waves his hand with a sarcastic roll of his eyes. “Now get off my bus, kid.”

 

“I am not a _child_ ,” Loki spits vehemently and, with that, retreats to the sun-scorched pavement with a toss of his head.

 

“Never said you were, kid,” the driver adds, doubtlessly to further infuriate him. “Good luck with the change,” he smirks. As he closes the bus door, Loki catches the wink sent his way from the other side of the glass. He glares right back.

 

Six cents. Their absence is felt heavily in his sweaty palm.

 

* * *

 

Loki does not like the New York bus system. The posters and propaganda stuck to every free space along the street preach of its service to the city's underprivileged and somewhat overlooked demographic. It's a nice thought, really, but Loki is _very_ much underprivileged _and_ overlooked; and yet, he finds himself loathing it with acute indignation.

 

Sure, it might be convenient for those too far from the subway to make use of it. Sure, it has benefits of its own for peoples of all backgrounds and is a relatively inexpensive mode of transportation. Nevertheless, the M15 is messy, dirty, loud, and confusing. There is no order within the system. It's absolute chaos! The transport personnel are cantankerous at best, downright inhumane at worst. Who refuses passage over six cents?

 

The subway isn't any more appealing than its counterpart, but if given a choice, Loki would take the tube over the bus any day of the week. Not only would it save him time and money (and a bit of his sanity and pride), it would also liberate his sense of compassion from the fangs of Earth's angry imps. 

 

Unfortunately, his wallet got stolen two days ago, so he’s stuck riding the bus for the foreseeable future. This, of course, is assuming he’ll be allowed onto the contraption next time. If today is any indication of the remainder of the month, he wants no part of it. October has no place being this shitty.

 

Loki pulls his scarf tighter around his neck while he walks. The evening is quickly turning frosty as the sun sets beyond the horizon. Most days are still warm, but when the sun retires and the moon fills its place, the chill sneaks in unhindered. It takes up residence on the tip of his nose, the edge of his chin, the tops of his eyelids. The night is swiftly approaching.

 

The distance from the bus stop and Loki’s apartment is just shy of seven miles. He would have been able to make the journey by subway in a mere ten minutes. He now has to trudge through a dodgy part of Queens to reach his destination. So far, he’s been walking for what feels like three hours.

 

According to his watch (and his irritation), it’s only been twenty-five minutes.

 

Loki steps around a puddle of suspiciously brown liquid and recedes further into his coat. He’s in a business district housing frequent tattoo parlors and dive bars. Their shady appearances and backwoods vibe draw small crowds of lost individuals. One of such persons has been trailing behind Loki since two blocks ago. It takes the utmost of Loki’s patience not to turn about and stick the daring man in the eye with his house key. Though, judging by the area, it is uncertain whether such action would deter him.

 

Across the street, a door to a small shop — another bar, Loki takes note of the decaying sign — opens, revealing a woman in a short dress and high heels. She stumbles a bit as the door slams after her, clutching at the brick of the building with one hand. This attracts the attention of a group of homeless-looking men further down the way. Loki picks up his pace.

 

“Hey, you! C’mere, baby!” one of the men calls to the woman. He’s broken away from the others (who are warming themselves around a flaming trash can) to teeter on the edge of the curb just before Loki.

 

The woman ignores him. The streetlights flick on and bathe her in smarmy yellow light. She’s slipped out of her heels (too wobbly, Loki presumes) to stagger in the direction Loki’s headed. Loki catches the grubby man’s eye as he passes him. He furrows his dirt and sweat encrusted eyebrows.

 

“Wha’ you lookin’ at?” he demands in a sloppy, gruff tone. In the faint light, he raises a loose fist to challenge Loki and possibly the world at large.

 

“Nothing,” Loki mutters, keeping his head low and his voice even. The last thing he needs is to be caught up in a crime without the proper ability to facilitate. That will really do wonders for his mood.

 

The man makes an irritated noise but does not dispute the topic. Instead, he returns to leering at the woman, who has now lumbered a few feet with her shoes in her hands and a prominent sag to her shoulders. At Loki’s current rate, he’ll overtake her in no time at all. That also means the man will be able to as well.

 

“Honey! You look lonely, all alone ov’r ther’. Let daddy take care ‘a’ you.”

 

Loki cringes in disgust as the insufferable man does not take the hint. He’s laughing hysterically and being a general public nuisance, even though the woman is steadily doing her best to put some much-needed distance between them.

 

“I’m talkin’ to you!” Loki hears the prick continue, tone growing sharp. “It’s rude to ignore someone when they talkin’ to you, bitch. Come here an’ _apologize_.”

 

Loki peers over his shoulder to see that the man is crossing the street and speed-walking towards the woman. His heart tries to leap out of his throat. Oh, no.

 

The woman wheels about, the streetlamp overhead flooding her face and the indigo bruises on her jaw. Loki’s heart plummets to the pit of his stomach. No. _No_.

 

Slurring something incomprehensible, the woman takes off at an unsteady pace towards the gaping mouth of a nearby alley, the man chasing after her. Loki grits his teeth at the cliché; of _course_ , run _towards_ the abandoned alley, why don’t you!

 

The two disappear into the shadows of the alleyway, and Loki only takes a moment to make up his mind. He jogs across the street in hot pursuit. When he reaches them, the woman is up against the wall at the far end (a dead-end; of _course_ ), and the man is swooping in on her with an object in his fist. Loki recognizes the reflected flash in the moonlight. Something vicious and scalding swirls in his veins and up his neck, twisting his throat in an invisible grip.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

 

The man spins at Loki’s voice, eyes hard and salacious. “Mind yer fuckin’ business,” he hisses and raises the knife towards Loki. “Be a good boy and run home ta daddy. You got no business interferin’ here.”

 

There are wet tears trailing down the apples of the woman’s cheeks. She’s abandoned her shoes somewhere along the way. Tiny cuts and scrapes mar the bottom and sides of her feet. Arms protectively around herself, the look on her face is all Loki needs to know. 

 

“Oh, but I think I do,” Loki replies, smiling sardonically. He maneuvers around a pile of trash in his slow approach, undeterred by the knife’s promise.

 

“ _Stay back_. This is no place fer _chil’ren_ , kid.”

 

Loki stops short. “I am not a _child_ ,” he warns icily.

 

The man completely ignores the silent threat. “I ‘on’t _give_ a shit. Get the hell away! You think you tough? _I’ll_ show you tough, boy. You’ll be beggin’ me ta stop once I get my hands on you.”

 

The woman whimpers. Loki regards her wearily. It’s obvious she’s inebriated and in no position to defend herself should things take a further unpleasant turn. He thumbs the blade in his pocket to steel himself.

 

“I’m afraid you’ll be the one begging me to stop,” Loki counters. In a blur of motion, he charges forward, knife in hand. The man gives a startled cry and lunges straight for Loki’s neck. Thankfully, Loki’s experienced in that particular department. He dodges easily, twisting the man’s arm back until it snaps. He lets out a scream of agony, flailing and kicking at whatever he can. Heavy boot collides with Loki’s shin, knocking his center of gravity out of alignment.

 

Loki falls — is _pushed_ — onto the dirty concrete. Without a minute’s hesitation, the man descends on him, scraping and punching like a deranged beast. Loki takes the blows with forbearance. He lies still and waits.

 

Through the fog in his mind, Loki knows that, ideally, he should be fighting back. He should be making an effort to mask his intentions and fool the man into believing he has the upper hand. Loki should definitely not be lying here like a human punching bag with no dignity whatsoever.

 

However, as Loki hears the scurrying of the woman running away, he can’t be bothered. His job here is done. All that’s left is to push the bastard off of him and end him. Permanently. There are few things Loki enjoys more than ending men that pry on innocent women.

 

But before Loki can slide his blade between the man’s ribs and push it through to the other side, a noise from above arrests his attention. The man takes no notice (he’s still preoccupied with punching Loki to next Sunday), but Loki, on his back, catches the figure silhouetted against the purpling backdrop of the starry sky.

 

“It’s not nice to pick on kids,” the figure says, a hand on their hip and humor in their jeer.

 

“Yeah! Pick on kids your own size!” another voice pipes up. This one is much deeper than the latter, gravelly like a chair being dragged across the floor. Loki’s vision swims.

 

Something weighted and of a great size drops to the ground near Loki’s head. The figure on the roof has since disappeared into the hazy night sky. Belatedly, Loki realizes the man has stopped punching him and is no longer sitting on his chest, too. Where he’s gone to, Loki cannot tell. He coughs wetly. Blood is dripping from his nose and pooling in his philtrum.

 

“Seriously, you’d think guys these days would get tired of picking on innocent folks just out to have a good time,” the first voice scoffs in revulsion. “Not so big now, eh?” He laughs something bright, and Loki is reminded of church bells. Perhaps he’s acquired a concussion.

 

“Can I punch him, too?” the gravelly voice asks, giddy like a toddler on Christmas. “I won’t punch too hard!” he tacks on earnestly after a beat.

 

“ _No_ , Pool. No killing.”

 

“No, no, of course not. Just punching. Just a _leeeettle_ punch to start the night. C’mon, Webs. _You_ got to. Let me too!”

 

Loki turns his head so his cheek is pressed against the warmth lingering in the concrete. It’s no doubt absolutely filthy, but it calms his racing pulse and allows him greedy gulps of air. His head is spinning to an awful degree. It feels as though it’s being split in two, right down his nose and between his eyebrows. He’ll be surprised if his left eye doesn’t swell closed come morning.

 

“Fine, but let me web him up first,” the first guy finally acquiesces, to which the second cheers triumphantly. He begins chanting, and Loki witnesses him doing the Cha-Cha Slide in his peripheral. He chokes on blood.

 

“Oh shit, you okay, man?” the second guy — who’s wearing a red onesie, to Loki’s complete abhorrence — stops his dancing (if it can be called that) to stalk over to Loki and crouch near his face. Loki gets an eyeful of his nether-regions and an array of lethal weapons. Oh, boy.

 

“Do I look _okay_ to you?” Loki gurgles, glaring righteously into the soulless panda eyes of the man’s mask. “I had this under control with no help from you.” He tries to lift himself onto his elbows, but the red suit guy pushes him back down with a large hand to his chest.

 

“Sure you did,” he agrees easily, “but I don’t think you should be getting up. You might have a fractured or broken bone somewhere. Those hurt like a bitch. I wouldn’t move if I were you.”

 

Loki scoffs, subsequently spitting up more blood. “Well, it is a good thing you aren’t me, then.” He proceeds to sit up out of spite.

 

The masked freak (ugh, another ridiculous superhero) squeaks and tumbles backward. Loki smiles privately.

 

Now seated upright, he has an unhindered view of the alley. The homeless man is unconscious, stuck to the floor in a stringy white substance — webs, Loki realizes. The slender Silhouette Man (who is _also_ dressed in red and is becoming more and more familiar the longer Loki stares at him) is standing over him, on what appears to be a flip-phone. Lastly, the muscular, Cha-Cha Slide fellow is staring at Loki like he’s sprouted a second head.

 

 _“What?”_ Loki snaps.

 

“Y-you’re... you’re...”

 

The Silhouette Man turns and folds his phone shut. “What did I say about speaking full sentences, Deadpool?” he sighs. Then, spotting Loki, does a double take. “Oh shit...”

 

“Oh shit, indeed!” the Deadpool man bellows entirely too loudly. “We just struck gold, baby!”

 

Loki brings a hand to his aching head, cringing at the volume. Gingerly, he feels around to assess any damage that might have been dealt. His hair is greasy and wet under his fingertips, and there are sticky clumps of drying blood on his temples, but he is otherwise mostly okay. The only issue lies with the _smell_.

 

He doesn’t quite manage to swallow his groan. He washed his hair this morning. He’s going to have to shower for the next three years to rid himself of this slimy alley-residue. How he's ever to manage a water bill of that velocity is beyond him. It seems that today grows more and more astronomically inconvenient as it ages. First, he gets denied a job position he wanted (unjustly, he might add). Then, he’s refused admittance on public transport by a knock-off Santa Clause. And now he’s just been beaten by a homeless pervert out to molest whatever he can get his paws on. _  
_

 

As if things can't get any more ridiculous than they are, everyone is quick on the draw, assuming he's some hapless infant without a clue or care in the world. _  
_

 

The fools in red are discussing a matter of great importance in conniving whisper-yells when Loki rises to his feet. They stop abruptly and both tilt their expressionless masks like confused puppies.

 

Wordlessly, Loki brushes himself off and exits the alley, drawing astounded gasps from his two onlookers. He chuckles to himself. There is nothing wrong with his legs. It is only his face that attracted any damage, and it was minimal, at that. He’s caught worse scrapes playing with Thor.

 

“Hey, wait!” the Silhouette Man cries. “I’ve called an ambulance! You need to go to the hospital, dude!”

 

Loki’s stomach drags on the sidewalk under his feet. His swollen eye is leaking. “That will not be necessary.”

 

“No, dude, I think you should take the great Spider-Man’s advice here,” Deadpool chimes in.

 

“Thank you, Deadpool.”

 

“Any time, Spider-Man.”

 

Loki shoves his hands into his pockets, ignoring the annoying duo licking his heels. He doesn’t have the time for this. He can’t amble in the vicinity of superheros. There's always the off-chance that doing so will alert the others of his whereabouts, and he has no energy for his age-old stalemate with the Allmother. There’s a reason he’s in a crowded city like this. Who would believe New York to be his resident location?

 

He makes it as far as one block in relative silence before the two freaks drop from above and cut him off. How they did so without breaking both legs, Loki can't imagine.

 

“Out of my way,” he growls. They raise their hands in a placating gesture.

 

“Look, man, Spidey’s real stubborn. Just go to the hospital, and we’ll be outta your hair, okay, kid? You—”

 

Deadpool makes it thus far before Loki’s fist connects with his jaw. He barely stumbles, but he does cry in surprise. The other, Spider-Man, snarls angrily.

 

“I,” Loki rumbles lowly, panting, “am not a _child_.”

 

“No, you’re a thousand-year-old God-freak with daddy issues,” Spider-Man quips, and Loki snaps his mouth shut.

 

“Am I the only one here seeing he’s literally, like, twelve years old?” Deadpool questions the open air, holding his chin with a pout. This earns him a kick to the crotch. He whines pathetically.

 

“I must go,” Loki decides. He side-steps Deadpool to continue on his way. If he’s lucky, they will take the cop-out with grace.

 

“Sorry, but you’re coming with us.”

 

Loki’s never been lucky.

 

Resigning himself to his fate, he catches the outstretched arm between his nails and _pulls_. He feels, sees, _hears_ the satisfying squelch of flesh tearing from bone. He takes this as his cue to exit stage right, tossing the limb away with a wrinkle of his nose.

 

“It’s been fun,” he shrugs loftily. He can’t contain the grin stretching his face. “But I won’t be going home with anyone.”

 

And with that, he disappears in a dizzying cloud of smoke, leaving the two idiots to stare at the empty place he stood.

 

One of them shakes his head in disbelief. “Did you just see that, too?” he asks.

 

The second nods solemnly. “I think I need a drink.”

 


	2. The Ants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t seem very happy to see me,” Deadpool replies. Arm outstretched, tone deadly serious, the merc has replaced last week’s smile for a pistol trained on Loki’s forehead. A big, imposing man, all Loki’s soupy brain can conjure are images of the ants those children were tormenting. He feels the cool muzzle of the gun press into the skin between his brows. 
> 
> Loki blinks. “I would think not. You tried to abduct me last time. Now you nearly pushed me off this building.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you’re at all confused about anything, don’t worry; that’s intentional...
> 
> *laughter fades into the distance*

 

It’s late. It’s around the time most New Yorkers have settled in for bed, washed up and exhausted after another long day of work. It’s about the hour the children’s dreams come out to play and the parents’ nightmares commence. The time says it’s quarter past midnight. The sky says it’s anyone’s opportunity.

 

This is the point in the diurnal where those of the day and those of the night diverge, each to their respective habitats; the former to their pillows, and the latter to the red-light district. Loki, perched atop a roof overlooking a long strip of garages and clubs, can see the people below, gyrating and twitching in the lines outside. They remind Loki of ants marching into their anthills. Sometimes they’re carrying crumbs for the queen, sometimes they’re not, and sometime soon, something big is going to come along and squash them beneath the heel of its boot.

 

Loki comes out here now and then. He likes to sit on the very edge of the roof, away from the ants’ line of vision, to observe. Unseen and unheard, he can learn things. Loki isn’t sure he knows exactly what he’s learning, only that it’s filed away in some part of his brain for him to sort through later. Perhaps he will discover something about himself as he watches the ants run in circles, chasing invisible demons and puking into bedazzled handbags. Maybe Loki’s just bored.

 

There isn’t much he can do on Midgard in his current form. He has no way of proving he is, in fact, a fifteen-hundred-year-old god of mischief, and not a crippled child in need of parental supervision. To others, Loki presents as a weak mortal boy at the ripe age of twelve. He is much older even in form, but his size inhibits the imagination quite a bit. Loki is unnaturally small for eighteen.

 

Besides, Loki was told the best way to learn about a person is to listen to their sins. Why not, then, come here to hear and see the vices unhindered?

 

Loki shifts on the concrete, swinging his legs over the edge. He scribbles absently in the blue notebook sitting comfortably in his lap, jotting the thoughts floating about his head as they come to him. Occasionally, he picks an ant and doodles it into the margins of the page. Since climbing up here, he’s acquired a toe-haired man with spectacles and a prominent cowlick, and half a woman in ruby stilettos. Since coming to Earth, he’s procured ants of all backgrounds and walks of life.

 

The ants are all different, but they have one thing in common: mortality.

 

Loki twirls his pencil in his hand. The line outside the club below hasn’t shortened much in the last hour. For a Thursday night, the Lower East Side is booming with activity. Cars fill the street, interspersed with the occasional drunk or unfortunate soul in need of reprise, and dozens of people are milling about. Loki can recognize the regulars. There’s Bob, the salaryman, about to cheat on his wife for the fifth week in a row. There’s Katie the nurse, and Catrina, her BFF with the bad spray tan.

 

And _there_ , hidden across the street, is Loki’s favorite: the boy without a name or a story. Like each time Loki’s spotted him, he’s wearing a hoodie and a slouch. Loki has never seen his face, no matter how much he cranes his neck or how far he leans over the side of the building. (Last time, he’d nearly fallen clean off and face-planted into the sidewalk.)

 

The mysterious character appeared some two weeks ago. It was during a particularly busy Friday evening, even for this club and this area. Loki would not have noticed the boy if not for his position. Rather than join the overzealous crowds that promise promiscuity and pleasure, the boy stood a ways off, hidden in the shadows. With his hood up, the only thing Loki could make out through the midnight sheen was the butterfly knife he spun in his hand.

 

Immediately, Loki found himself charmed by the person. Seldom does he draw an ant twice, but he finds himself sketching the boy over and over, some of the portraits taking up whole pages at a time.

 

The boy is in his usual place tonight, just out of sight in the gloom of the alcove across the road. None of the street dwellers take notice of him. Loki’s eyes are better adjusted. This time, he's brought his binoculars, should the need arise. He is prepared.

 

The hooded boy makes an appearance at the same time every Thursday: midnight, on the dot. Loki has taken to coming out a half hour prior, just to see him. Sometimes he draws him. Sometimes Loki writes spells. Both are tied to the boy in the alcove, the ant with more inscrutability than the whole of the anthill.

 

For reasons unbeknownst to Loki, the boy was late today. He’s never done that before, as far as Loki can tell. He isn’t fiddling with his butterfly knife, either. He’s jittery, restless. Loki pauses in coloring the dark hair of the club bouncer to stare at him. He’s muttering to himself, walking in circles. He scrubs a hand down his face or wrings his fingers in his hair every few seconds, looking about wildly. Loki swings his legs and waits.

 

Today, so far, has been boring. Loki has yet to secure a job, yet to find a reliable place of residence. His current apartment is crawling with roaches, and there are mice in the kitchen cupboards that chew through anything inside (cardboard or otherwise). He’s pretty sure the black substance sticking in the grout in the bathroom is mold. He doesn’t like staying there and only returns when his frail body requires sleep or instant burritos (which are all Loki has been consuming as of late).

 

So if not in his apartment, where else to waste away but on rooftops miles from his bed during all hours of the night? What is there to do? Everything of interest (such as Six Flags, for roller-coasters are not a thing on Asgard) costs money, most of which Loki slips from the pockets of distracted passerby.

 

In essence, Loki devotes his days to purse-snatching and his nights to parading the decadent trades this city has to offer. 

 

Loki finishes up the bouncer’s hair and moves on to more important things — chiefly, the boy.

 

He hums quietly whilst he works. He pencils in the black hood, what he imagines the face beneath to be, and the prominent sneakers peeking out from under fraying jeans two sizes too big. The sneakers, ironically, are more conspicuous than the hood. The color of an orange highlighter, they aren’t helping the boy maintain a low profile. Loki does not understand Earth fashion sometimes. Why would anyone willingly put such monstrosities on their feet?

 

Loki keeps the sneakers blank, unfilled, white.

 

It’s then, as Loki is shading the jeans to the desired color of jean-ness, that it happens. It’s quick; in the blink of an eye, Loki’s position is compromised. Just as the boy is wheeling about for the umpteenth time, _pacing, pacing, pacing,_ he happens a glance up. He goes rigid as he takes notice of his spectator on the roof.

 

Loki drops his pencil.

 

It is a testament to his condition that he does not vanish immediately. Had he been in his previous form, he wouldn’t have been on the roof in the first place, would not need to study the humans from afar. Rather, he could survey the creatures from under their very noses. He could pick them apart, crouch down to grovel with them on the sidewalk and liquefy them with a magnifying glass for his amusement. Loki’s seen children do that with ants before. He could burn the ugly ones that threaten the queen and refuse to collect crumbs for the anthill. He could slip, invisible, into the parents’ nightmares and smite them in their slumber. He could free the children from their endless dreams.

 

The pencil makes a quiet noise as it hits Earth.

 

By the time Loki has recovered from his near-heart-attack and braved another look across the road, the boy is no longer to be found. Not leaning against the wall with his knife, nor pacing incessantly, ugly sneakers a blur. He’s disappeared.

 

An anxious, prickly feeling creeps up Loki’s spine and settles over his chest from the inside out. His heart is rabbiting against his ribcage, pumping too much blood and too many _things_ throughout his body. Usually, people run screaming and crying when they see him. But Loki is wearing the skin of an innocent, baby-faced teenager.

 

Slowly, Loki rises to his feet, folding his notebook closed. He sweeps his surroundings, checking for any oddities in his peripheral, but things are as they were five minutes ago. Bob has a blonde on his arm, mouthing up the rusty truck parked around the block. Katie and Catrina are trying not to throw up as they clutch their bedazzled bags to their chests. The boy in the hood is nowhere to be seen.

 

Loki scales down the fire escape. He does not travel far before the inevitable catches up to him. It seems that he is in a perpetual loop of waiting for something bigger, something badder to rain down on him. As preposterous as it is, Loki feels quite like the ants outside the club, anticipating someone’s boot to stomp him into comatose.

 

He’s just rounding a corner and turning down a side street not far from his apartment when a very pissed-off Billy Kaplan rudely interrupts him.

 

By flinging him through the window of a 7-Eleven.

 

“I thought I’d find you somewhere around here,” Billy shouts over the crash of glass shards embedding themselves deeply into Loki’s flesh, breathing heavily. Loki thinks he sees the other boy smile as his body topples several aisles like dominos and lands against the opposite wall, but he can’t be certain.

 

Billy wastes no time, offering Loki no respite. He steps in through the window and, with a flick of his finger, seizes Loki by the ankles, suspending him in the air.

 

Loki, his heels turned towards the ceiling and his arms fastened tightly at his sides, stifles a groan. “Fancy seeing you, Billy, dear. You come here often?”

 

Billy barks a short, brittle laugh. It sounds like how Loki imagines burnt peanut brittle tastes. “Cut it, Short Stock. I don’t have time for your tricks.”

 

“Well, that’s no fun. You talk to your mother with that mouth?” Loki grins impishly. He’s gifted a blow to the lower bits for his efforts.

 

Billy stands back, crossing his arms over his chest, to inspect his work. The shop resembles that of a tornado scapegoat, Loki a train wreck survivor. Not only was the window broken, but the entire room is a demolition zone. The man with the greasy hair is not behind the counter as he usually is.

 

“I took care of him earlier,” Billy explains.

 

Loki's eyebrows reach for his hairline. “Have you obtained mind-reading powers since I last saw you?”

 

A corner of his mouth lifts almost imperceptibly. “Yes and no. But more importantly, what are you doing in New York?”

 

Scoffing, Loki rolls his eyes so violently he hopes they fall out of his head. At least then he won’t have to see Billy Kaplan ever again. “I can’t visit the Big Apple now? What are you, the chief of the Let’s Keep Loki in Prison squad? Because it’s a mighty inconvenient division, I must hand it to you.”

 

“You are _dangerous_ ,” Billy emphasizes as if that explains everything.

 

“Dangerous?”

 

“Yes. Dangerous. Unstable. Insane. _Traitorous_.”

 

Unfortunately, this doesn’t arouse an epiphany in Loki. It hardly explains anything at all, much less excuses Wiccan’s recent behavior. Loki is duplicitous in every sense of the word, yes, but how does that vindicate being hurled into a convenience store? Loki is beginning to think he is cursed when it comes to windows.

 

Moreover, it makes Billy seem more like a self-righteous asshole, and not the hero-in-the-making he’s trying so desperately to play. Billy, along with the other Avengers, fools himself into believing he is somehow superior to Loki. The reason, primarily, is that Loki has enslaved humankind on more than one occasion.

 

Which is entirely unfair, in Loki’s opinion. All heroes have killed and made a few hasty decisions that didn’t end too well, either for themselves or the ones around them. Sure, Loki might be on a separate level altogether, but _still_. He, simply because of an irreversible fate and a bit of a selfish streak, is _irredeemable_ , somehow. Therefore by all accounts, he must be kept on a tight leash. No one wants a trickster in their realm, and if Billy Kaplan had his way, Loki would be banished from Earth forever.

 

It’s too bad Loki likes Earth. There’s delicious food here for a realm made of morons.

 

“Have you, by chance, looked in a mirror lately? I’d say you’re dangerous as well, Wiccan.”

 

“I want you to leave Earth,” Billy continues. He maneuvers around a wreckage of Twinkies strewn about the floor, squatting, so he’s eye-level with Loki. “I have enough on my hands as it is, Loki. I do not need nor want you getting tangled up in my affairs again.”

 

“You wouldn’t be referring to the time I tricked you, would you?” Loki pipes up. Blood is rushing to his temples, his vision dancing before him. Little red squiggly lines are waving like seaweed on the backs of his eyelids. His heartbeat thumps steadily throughout the whole of his body. His toes are going numb.

 

“You mean the twenty-some-odd times?” Billy bites back.

 

It is with effort that Loki blinks. “Fair enough.”

 

“I hope you realize that you’re going to die here,” Billy says. “All alone, with no one to save you. You are going to die the death of a coward, and all because you would not leave when I was asking nicely.”

 

_Nicely?_

 

Loki’s thoughts shuffle back to the first time Billy found him. It was late, as it is now. Loki was crawling into bed when Billy appeared before him, binding the former in place with little more than a raised hand and a whim. He’d proceeded to threaten Loki, (albeit slightly less violently) until Loki buckled under the pressure and forfeited everything he possessed.

 

Loki disappeared for weeks following that, having learned his lesson. (Note to self: don’t tussle with sorcerers of the Wiccan brand.) He gathered what he could, and he moved here, to New York, to build his work up again. That has taken several months to accomplish because this city has nowhere near the number of resources London does. All his work, all his research — _gone._ Burned or sunk in the Thames, Loki suspects he won’t be retrieving it anytime soon.

 

If that is what Billy Kaplan considers “asking nicely,” Loki might as well kill the bloody fellow, right here, right now.

 

It is a shame Loki’s research is gone; otherwise, he might have been able to decipher how to do just that.

 

“I know what you are thinking. You believe I am the person I used to be,” Loki manages to force out. Pins and needles are clawing up his shins, the pressure in his head building, building, _building_. There’s an invisible hand squeezing his brain, and if it doesn’t stop soon, it’s going to ooze out of his ears to be lost forever.

 

Billy brushes a finger along the underside of Loki’s jaw. When he speaks, his voice is low. “No, Loki. You’ve changed,” he insists.

 

Loki could laugh. He could roll around on the ground right now, ignoring all the window remains and Little Debbie delicacies, because it’s that funny. Hilarious, even.

 

He glares at Billy as best he can from upside-down. “Wrong answer. See, I hate to break it to you, but that is impossible.”

 

“How is that impossible? _Why_ is it impossible?” Billy asks, eyebrows furrowed.

 

A weak smile settles into the thin lines of Loki’s face, sinking into the cracks and wrinkles like glue. His skin feels tight, unnatural. “I would give anything to be able to change and stay that way.”

 

“I don’t want to kill you,” Billy admits. For a liar, he is significantly more convincing than his Avenger contemporaries.

 

“Yes, well, I didn’t want to come to Midgard so we could fight like an old married couple, but here we are now. Are not you heroes supposed to have mercy? What happened to the ‘No Kill’ policy? Did that perish with your morality?”

 

Billy tips his head, eyes squinting. “You know I’m going to, like, kill you right now, right?”

 

Loki flashes his teeth. “You couldn’t if you tried.”

 

And this, it appears, throws Billy Kaplan for a loop. This may be due in part to the fact that Loki is one hundred percent correct.

 

“Why must you mortals make everything so complicated?” Loki sighs. He wants to spit in Billy’s face and tell him to screw off into the sun but politely refrains from doing so on the grounds that Billy wouldn’t take that as a compliment. “I am doing no harm here. _Must_ you chase me down and burn all of my research simply because I fooled you once or twice or possibly twenty times in the recent past? I’m living my best life out here. I haven’t killed anyone in years.”

 

Billy stabs a fingernail into Loki’s cheek with a soft snarl. “Mischief and mayhem is your _thing._ You can’t honestly expect me to believe that.”

 

“I was betting on you being stupid enough to, yes.”

 

A groan. “There are eight other realms you could torment. I’m just asking you to leave _this one_ , not burn yourself at the stake — or whatever it is Asgardians do to wanted criminals.”

 

“I do apologize, but I must graciously decline.”

 

“And why would that be, pray tell?”

 

“Earth has bacon.”

 

The great Wiccan, the poster boy for all things magic and wizardry, deflates now. He stares at Loki as though Loki _did_ spit in his face. Judging from his expression (and true to Loki’s premonition), he isn’t enjoying it.

 

And, if Loki didn’t know better, he might mistake that to be traces of sadness in his eyes.

 

He hesitates for a moment, face twisting with an emotion Loki can’t place. “I’ll leave you with a warning this time,” Billy decides at last. He stands.

 

“Whatever happened to killing me, old chap?” Loki inquires, but it’s foul-tasting on his tongue and coats his throat uncomfortably. He can’t quite swallow.

 

All Billy does is flick a hand, exhaling slowly, before he disappears. With him goes his magic. Loki falls, head-first, into more slivers of glass lying wait on the travertine. He’s surprised he doesn’t have any go through his eyes or jab his skull, but this body has always been excellent at deterring paper cuts and procuring knife wounds.

 

Loki does not know how long it takes him to pick himself back up and complete the journey to his mold, cockroach, and mice-infested flat. It is impossible to determine the length of time, or the distance traveled until he falls into his mattress, weary and soaked in blood. He’s relatively certain his elbow is not supposed to be bent that way. How such a beating occurred unnoticed in a populated area of New York is beyond him.

 

For now, Loki is content to do a second-rate job at wrapping himself in ace bandages and self-medicating on Tylenol. He’ll leave his questions and worries to the Loki of tomorrow. Tonight, he sleeps.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Loki does not go out the next night. He does not go out the night after, or any sequential night following that. He stays in, cooped up with the rats and the mice and the mold, at the mercy of dusty books from the public library.

 

The aroma fills up the whole place, contaminating it with the scent of well-worn, well-loved, dog-eared pages. Most are stained, and most have accumulated their fair share of decay. In a way, the grime is very gratifying to feel, to breathe in.

 

Loki tells himself he’s staying in on account of his injuries and not because Billy Kaplan weighs heavily on his mind. Preposterous, he laughs at himself, to even consider such a thing. Wiccan has never been a _friend_.

 

Nevertheless, Loki can only take so much solitude, and thus decides after a week that a broken arm warrants a treat. Previous Loki’s treats often included generally illegal practices. Current Loki has considerably more caution.

 

Joe’s Diner is as warm and welcoming as when Loki last left it. He’d forgotten, briefly, how wonderful the smell of breakfast food is until he steps foot in the establishment.

 

Miss Stacy greets him at the door with a broad smile and a sobriquet Loki doesn’t hear (due to how exceptionally hungry he now realizes he is). She’s a lovely woman who whips up an absurdly tasty eggs benedict. She chats with him sometimes when he’s populating the corner with the plants and his studies. Loki likes her. She’s a likable human.

 

“Haven’t seen you in a while, kid,” she says good-naturedly after successfully spotting his small form in the queue. She balances a tray full of dirty dishes on her hip to slap at his shoulder.

 

Loki doesn’t have the heart or the energy to debate his age, let alone his qualifications in the “kid” department. “It’s good to see you. I have missed this place. One cannot go wrong with American breakfasts, right?”

                                                                                  

“Looks like they had the same idea.” She nods at the filled tables, the mouths waiting to be stuffed and sent home, and her smile turns sympathetic.

 

“I’ll take mine to go,” Loki smiles back.

 

He has to wait twenty nearly-unbearable minutes for his food (when did he become so hungry? When was the last he ate?), but he soldiers it with grace. In the end, it’s worth it. He mounts a nearby building, and despite it being light out, for once doesn’t deliberate the chances of someone seeing him. Bacon prevails over all else.

 

Half of Loki’s coveted pork ends up on the striped awning ten feet below, as fate seems to will it.

 

 _“Fuckshitfuck!”_ Loki curses enthusiastically, only managing to catch himself and the remains of his scrambled eggs on toast by sheer passion alone. He clutches, white-knuckled, at the lip of the building. He’s dangerously close to favoring worse than his bacon, and not thanks to his clumsiness. Some pinheaded ignoramus has dared push Loki to his prepatent death on this lovely Sunday morning. He has no desire for two broken arms or death of any variety, thank you very much!

 

Turning to glare at the offender proves an atrocious mood-dampener.

 

“Oh. _You_.”

 

“You don’t seem very happy to see me,” Deadpool replies. Arm outstretched, tone deadly serious, the merc has replaced last week’s smile for a pistol trained on Loki’s forehead. A big, imposing man, all Loki’s soupy brain can conjure are images of the ants those children were tormenting. He feels the cool muzzle of the gun press into the skin between his brows.

 

Loki blinks. “I would think not. You tried to abduct me last time. Now you nearly pushed me off this building.”

 

“Keyword being ‘nearly,’ for those hearing impaired individuals in the audience. Press CC for subtitles.”

 

“I am the only other person he—” Loki begins, but cuts himself off, closing his eyes briefly with a sigh. Deadpool is grinning. Well, Loki can only assume that’s what the squinched eyes mean. The mask hides precisely what it was designed to hide, but it is surprisingly animated. Loki is not confident how that is possible. Magic, perhaps?

 

Loki watches Deadpool wearily. The man in question is smiling for himself, Loki, and the pigeons mingling on the vents ten feet away, twirling his other gun on his finger like a cowboy (or Star-Lord, probably). No, not magic then.

 

“Are you going to kill me?” Loki is bored with the concept after a dozen failed attempts to end his life, so his tone resonates at a frequency that could rival a zombie. He stares into the soulless whites of Deadpool’s mask, unimpressed.

 

"Nope. Just your average kidnapping."

 

"How incredibly mundane. And here I thought you would be more creative than this."

 

Deadpool tilts his head. "Get kidnapped a lot?"

 

"Killed, mostly," Loki corrects brusquely.

 

"Oh. Huh. Samesies. You got a healing factor, too?"

 

When Loki does not reply, Deadpool flaps one hand and squirms with all the dignity of a five-year-old. “Well, don’t act so excited! This's nothing personal. 'Cause like, no offense, but everyone wants you dead, and I wasn’t about to pass up on the opportunity to get an in with the Avengers, even if you are a little... young.” He bumps the pistol on Loki’s forehead with a chuckle, and Loki grits his teeth. “I’m sure you can understand. Or maybe not, ‘cause they kinda hate you. It’s mutual, right? Mutual ass-pining. Wait, that’s not the right word.” He shakes his head. “Yeah, they want yer ass, big guy. In a big ol’ cage. Real MVP, Homey Inn treatment. I’m sure they’ll treat ya nice and won’t pluck your eyebrows without consent or anything. They're mostly No Kill kinda guys, so don't worry.”

 

Loki’s glare is positively glacial. “I sincerely hope you stop talking.”

 

To his credit, Deadpool is not offended in the slightest. If it’s at all possible, his grin widens so much so that Loki can vaguely see the outline of his lips (and teeth beyond that) when the mercenary sucks in a breath. He rocks on his heels. “Heh, I hear that a lot. I’m actually behaving myself right now! You should hear me when I get going. Everyone starts shooting me when that happens — ain’t that great? Is that why people kill you, too?”

 

Loki does not warrant that with a response. Instead, he says, “Where’s your friend?” because it’s the only thing that makes any semblance of sense at the moment.

 

“Spidey’s on a temporary vacation,” Deadpool answers like a petulant child. His finger strokes the trigger, face turning to stone once again. “But I’m monologuing. You got me to start talking so you could think of a way to escape. Smart, I’ll give ya that, curly. But I’m afraid you’re gonna end up sleepin’ with the worms, pal, because despite what the AvengeNoobs want, if you even _try_ something like last time, I won’t hesitate.” He mimes blasting through Loki’s skull, complete with his personal verbal sound effects.

 

Loki does not doubt Deadpool’s marksmanship or his enthusiasm to splatter Loki’s brains around the roof. That is not the discussion to be had. What Deadpool _should_ be worried about are the lengths Thor will resort to in the name of preserving Loki’s life. Even if he really shouldn't concern himself.

 

“That’s unfortunate. I was hoping I could beat the Spider up in an alley for a nice change of pace.”

 

“Sorry to disappoint,” Deadpool shrugs. “ _Butttt_ , I promised Spidey no more killing while on his playground, and I don’t want my toys taken, so you, jail-bait, are coming with me.”

 

Loki has nowhere to run this time. Unlike their last encounter, his energy is severely depleted. Additionally, Deadpool is growing increasingly impatient the longer Loki stalls.

 

“I don’t think that is a good idea.” Loki grimaces as Deadpool drops one of his firearms and grips his bicep in an iron clutch.

 

“You’ve been a bad, bad boy,” Deadpool frowns.

 

Smiling wryly, Loki raises his eyebrows. “I guess this is the part where I am punished for being naughty, then.”

 


	3. A Pyre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki glances over at it cautiously, a weak laugh falling from his lips. “Asgardians don’t actually burn their runaway captives—” Deadpool spins his chair with a foot around the leg, effectively shutting Loki’s rambling down. Loki feels him untying the rope around his wrists with quick and easy efficiency. Soon after, he follows by ripping it from Loki’s ankles as well. His breath catches in his throat. “That’s just a myth. I’m not even—”
> 
> “Strip.”
> 
> Loki chokes on his spit. “Excuse me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: oh nice chapter i love this we love bondage in this house nothing sexual about this no sexual undertones at al—
> 
> inner deadpool: make a joke about stripping.
> 
> me: i don’t—
> 
> inner deadpool, cocking gun: i won’t hesitate, bitch

 

Loki is dragged, blindfolded and gagged, to the welcoming seat of an uncomfortable folding chair approximately ten minutes from his last known location near Joe’s Diner. Once secured with rope, the blindfold is removed, and he finds he’s in a large warehouse. His chair is directly in the center, and the place is empty save a chatty Deadpool and a solitary crate.

 

Deadpool, who has not stopped talking once since he shoved the foul-smelling material in Loki’s mouth.

 

Naturally, Deadpool is parading around the building for no reason, speaking to himself. Loki hasn’t bothered listening in; most is jibberish anyhow, and what he does understand he wishes he couldn’t. It’s likely the mercenary noticed Loki’s attention waning around the twenty-minute mark of his monologue but has continued yapping like a pesky Chihuahua. Much to Loki’s chagrin, the gag was left in place with a capricious smirk from the mercenary, so Loki cannot even entreat the maniac to kindly shut the fuck up.

 

Loki idly watches Deadpool shuffle to the lone crate and tug his pistols from his belt. He begins disassembling one and lovingly wiping it with a rag he pulls from one of his various pouches. As if feeling Loki’s stare, he glances up and catches his eye. Or at least Loki assumes. It’s hard to tell if Deadpool is looking _at_ him or past him into another plane of existence.

 

“I hope you’re having fun over there,” Deadpool says, and Loki can hear his grin.

 

 _Fuck off_ , Loki tries to communicate through his glare and the gag. It isn’t very effective, as can be imagined, and neither intimidates or quiets Deadpool.

 

“I hope you’re not plotting your escape over there, either!” He jabs a wiggly finger at Loki, who scowls in return. “Hey, don’t be a grumpy-grump. At least I used the _comfortable_ rope. Last time, the dude peed himself. ...Not ‘cause of the rope, though. That was his three missing fingers talking! Why’d he pee, you ask? Maybe he was enjoying it as much as I was...” Deadpool trails off with a tilt of his head, seemingly listening in on a conversation Loki is unable to hear.

 

Once again, Loki finds himself wishing he’d taken Wiccan’s advice to heart. His appreciation of Earth’s species does not dwarf the devastating consequences of residing here. His need and craving for information aren’t as life and death as they are importunate. After all, he will sooner be held captive than he ever hopes to be killed. He appears to have drawn the short stick. _Again_.

 

Unsurprisingly, Deadpool was irrefutably... _giddy_ when he apprehended Loki. Loki cannot say he blames the man for being excited. While he’s never met Deadpool outside their last strange encounter, Loki’s reputation precedes him. Few have not heard of Thor’s younger brother, master of magic and trickery, “the villain that will not die,” as he’s so kindly been branded. He’s positively hated by the general populace on both his own planet and this one. And at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter if hero or villain; both take pleasure in hunting a man they will not feel guilty for killing.

 

 _“He’ll come back; he always does,”_ Loki’s overheard the handmaidens of the Allmother remark. It used to make him upset that this is true, sometimes despite even his own wishes, but over the years, he’s grown numb to the pleasant aide-mémoire. Something is keeping him here, _alive_. Something wants him to proceed as he was, his intentions be damned. This something follows him wherever he goes, _whenever_ he goes and is only quieted when he’s...

 

Loki cuts that train of thought off. It’s best not to get into that now. Besides, he doubts Deadpool would care about the consequences of killing anyone, never mind _Loki_.

 

Deadpool is singing softly when Loki tunes back into his chatter. _“All I wish is to be alone; stay away, don’t you invade my home. Best off if you hang outside. Don’t come in, I’ll only run and hide.”_ He’s successfully taken apart one pistol and is diligently working on the next. _“Who can it be now?”_ He makes the noise of a trumpet with his mouth, and mimes singing into the muzzle of his gun. _“Who can it beeee now?”_

 

Loki wants to butt in and ask what they’re waiting around for, but he doesn’t think Deadpool would appreciate his solo being interrupted. It’s also highly unlikely that the mercenary would be working alone, because Loki has never as much as breathed in his general vicinity and therefore wouldn’t be the victim of a revenge act. Unless, of course, Deadpool is trying on his hero persona for size. That wouldn’t be very surprising, as the mercenary is friends with Spider-Man (who is so ridiculously self-righteous it makes Loki physically ill).

 

Spider-Man, who is the only person stupid enough to consider partnering with Deadpool. (It says a lot about his own mental state that he’d be friends with the merc.)

 

After the events in that alleyway all those days ago, it’s improbable Deadpool would move without at least _alerting_ the Spider. Otherwise, Deadpool might have taken Loki to the Avengers immediately and not pit-stopped at this warehouse. What’s delaying his arachnid friend, however, is what Loki would like to know.

 

As though reading his thoughts, there comes a sound from behind him, interrupting Deadpool’s trumpeting prematurely. Loki cannot see from his position faced away from the entrance, but he assumes that was the door slamming shut, presumably after Spider-Man.

 

“Did you really have to do this now? I was busy,” Spider-Man’s voice rings out, an irritated twinge coloring his words.

 

Deadpool abandons his guns and his singing to wave madly in Loki’s direction. “But look! I got our guy!”

 

“Deadpool...” Spider-Man trails off, haughty. “Could you not have waited till tonight? You know I have... _stuff_ at this time.”

 

“But... he was out in the open, all vulnerable-like.”

 

 _I was most certainly not_ , Loki thinks. Bitterly, he recalls his spoiled bacon.

 

Loki hears Spider-Man scuffle a bit on the cement behind him. “Yeah, or we could’ve waited until _tonight_ , like we _agreed_. It’s not like he was gonna up and vanish in three hours.”

 

Deadpool makes an affronted noise. “Uh, he totally could’ve.” He opposes Loki with narrowed eyes. “He could be plotting to right now.”

 

“Okay, Sherlock,” Spider-Man pooh-poohs. Finally, he comes into view along the edge of Loki’s peripheral. Hands on his hips, he tips forward slightly to inspect their bound captive. “Now, what do we have here?”

 

The mercenary’s stature straightens, clasping his hands behind his back. “I’ve been trailing him like you asked, but he hasn’t done much until today. He’s kinda boring, actually. _Total_ nerd-in-the-edgelord-closet, if you catch my drift.” Spider-Man sniggers slightly but otherwise makes no comment. “But, uh, quick question?” Spider-Man hums. “How do we know the Avengers aren’t gonna, you know, _off_ him?”

 

Spider-Man is quiet a moment, considering that. “They don’t... they don’t _kill_ people?”

 

Deadpool is equally as uncertain when he adds, “He’s just a kid, too. Like, I know he’s got this weird aging thing going on anyway, but right now? He’s like, fifteen.”

 

“He’s not _that_ young...” Spider-Man looks to Loki for confirmation, but Loki is tasting Deadpool’s makeshift gag and unable to do anything more than roll his eyes. “Okay, why is he gagged, again?”

 

“So he can’t spout his magic, Wingardium Leviosa crap, and POOF! out of here,” Deadpool replies as if it’s common knowledge. Loki has no idea what any of those words mean.

 

“Can he do that?”

 

“He did last time.”

 

Spider-Man sighs like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Well, poop. Now you’re making me feel bad. It’s one thing if the criminal mastermind and human enslaver is in his 40’s, but this is different. I swear this is the Hitler baby thing all over again. Draw a stache, he’s our dude.”

 

“How old are you?” Loki shifts so his eyes meet Deadpool’s white ones, the mercenary shuffling his feet.

 

“We just established he can’t talk, Deadpool.”

 

“Shut up. I’m seeing if he can telepathically communicate.” A minute passes in complete silence. Nothing. Deadpool deflates with a yawn. “Nah, no dice. That’s lame. Isn’t this dude supposedly really strong? He’s taken out the AvengeNoobs how many times?”

 

Spider-Man can’t argue with that, apparently. The two masked men watch Loki in reticence, and the longer the moment lasts, the greater Loki’s unease grows. He already knows why they could be after him, but the question remains of why _now_. He’s been on Midgard for close to a year; why are the Avengers just _now_ getting around to locking him up again? With a sinking feeling, Loki’s mind drifts back to Billy. Perhaps he had alerted the Avengers of Loki’s whereabouts. He _had_ said that this was the last warning...

 

But had the Avengers hired these imbeciles rather than take matters into their own hands? Do they underestimate him that much?

 

Startled from his train of thought, Loki flinches as Spider-Man comes close — close enough to poke at Loki’s ankle as he crouches down to his level. Loki attempts to kick the offending finger away, but the bonds prohibit such tempting behavior.

 

Deadpool joins Spider-Man in a squat, and they both scrutinize Loki, who squints suspiciously.

 

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Spider-Man mutters. He reaches around Loki to fumble with Deadpool’s intricate knot in the gag.

 

Deadpool chortles. “I have a bad feeling about most things, yet I’m still alive.”

 

“That’s because you can’t die.” Spider-Man grunts and the tie comes loose. He makes a noise of triumph, Loki spits in his face — it’s all rather cinematic. Spider-Man stumbles backward in disgust, even though he’s wearing a mask and cannot feel the spittle. Loki grins victoriously. “That was totally uncalled for, dude!”

 

“The both of you are ludicrously birdbrained,” Loki hisses. Being able to speak his mind aloud is delightful. He pops his jaw.

 

“That’s rich coming from the guy that got himself caught,” Spider-Man counters sourly, wiping his cheek.

 

“As if I had a choice with a gun pointed at my head.”

 

“You didn’t have trouble POOF!ing away last time,” Deadpool points out.

 

Loki bites his tongue. On the contrary, he’d had an alarming number of unforeseen consequences following that awful night. He’d been bed-ridden for the entire next day, unable to do so much as close the curtains to keep the sun from blinding him. Additionally, he knows it’ll only be worse a second time around. He hasn’t had nearly enough time to heal, and whittling away his stores will have long-term side-effects.

 

With a huff, Spider-Man pulls a flip-phone out of nowhere, dialing a number into the keypad and rising to his feet. Deadpool stays where he is, propping his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands.

 

“Now we can finally gossip!” he says enthusiastically.

 

Loki sighs. “You do enough of that for the both of us.”

 

Deadpool’s eyes squinch. He’s probably smiling under his mask. “True, but now I get answers this time. Despite what you might think, talking to yourself isn’t always fun.” He knocks his knuckles against his head cartoonishly.

 

“And what if I _don’t_ answer?” Loki presses.

 

Deadpool glances over at Spider-Man on the phone a few feet away, his back is to them, then pulls Loki’s knife from his tactical belt. Loki fights to keep his eyes from widening. How did he get that?

 

“Is that a threat?”

 

Deadpool nods earnestly. Loki sighs. _Of course._

“Now,” Deadpool begins, hiding the blade away again, “how old are you?” When Loki does not respond, he groans with his entire body. “Don’t be like that, kid. What’s knowing your age gonna do? We aren’t magicians like you.”

 

Loki exhales through his nose. “I’m eighteen.”

 

At that, Deadpool makes a surprised squealy noise. “The fuck? You’re so tiny! No _way_ you’re eighteen.”

 

“You said so yourself: I have no reason to lie.”

 

“But how does that work? Aren’t you thousands of years old? Or is it a Benjamin Button kinda thing? Hey, can you even drink alcohol? Hey, Webs! Getta load of this! He isn’t twelve!”

 

“Webs” shakes his hand to shut his partner up, his attention fixed on whoever he’s phoned.

 

“Spidey and I bet on it. He was hell-bent on you being older than sixteen, but I was like, ‘Nah, man, he’s so small, though.’ You don’t happen to have five bucks on you, do you? I never carry a wallet. It ruins the lines of the suit.”

 

“Yet you carry my knife and it doesn’t ruin your suit lines,” Loki deadpans.

 

“Well, duh. But that’s worth it.” He lowers his voice, adding, “Don’t tell anyone this, but I do it to get free stuff. Why pay when people give you anything you want if you point Mr. and Mrs. over there at them?” He gestures to his pistols left in a state of disarray on the crate.

 

“Wouldn’t they call the police?” He’s tried similar tactics in the past, but none have worked thus far. He imagines it isn’t nearly as difficult for such a big, threatening man as imposing as Deadpool.

 

“Like they’d dare. And the po-po can’t touch me. Half those dudes—or dudettes; love those lady cops—quiver in their li’l boots when they hear of me. The ones that don’t are either new or stupid enough to be friends with the Avengers.”

 

“Aren’t _you_ friends with the Avengers?”

 

Here Deadpool visibly stiffens. Before he has the opportunity to respond, however, Spider-Man returns to his side to inform him that “the goose is in the water.”

 

“This isn’t anything personal.” Deadpool gives him a thumbs up as he rises to his feet. “Just business.”

 

“Could not the Avengers have taken a better approach?” Loki rolls his eyes. Every day he is reminded afresh that he should never have come back.

 

“What, like letting you run free?” Spider-Man squawks in disbelief. “You’ve tried enslaving humankind _how_ _many_ _times_?”

 

Loki bounces his knee, his irritation growing. “It’s been several years. I do not understand why they’re so eager to get me back in chains all of a sudden.”

 

Deadpool tilts his head again, something Loki is beginning to understand he does quite a lot. “They don’t want you back, though.”

 

Loki does a double take. “ _What?_ ”

 

“Well, we don’t know that, Red,” Spider-Man crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m sure they’ll be glad to get him back. They just didn’t, you know, _say_ that...”

 

Loki’s mouth opens in disbelief, his tongue lying uselessly behind his teeth. He blinks. It would be one thing for Earth’s mightiest heroes to hire Deadpool and the Spider to retrieve Loki and ensure the safety of their planet (however imagined the threat may be); it is another for the vigilantes to take matters into their own hands, of their own will, and with seemingly no purpose.

 

“What could you _possibly_ gain from this?” Loki grits out through his teeth. Is it fame they seek? Acceptance? _Money?_

 

Spider-Man squirms under his seething gaze, not offering to enlighten Loki, so Deadpool steps in. “Dude, who pissed in your cereal? You were the one who did all that shit they’re mad at you for in the first place. And brah, it’s nun yo’ business.”

 

“I disagree. See, I believe it _is_ my business, considering this is my life you fools are playing with.”

 

“We just need their help,” Spider-Man offers. Loki cannot see his face, but he believes he is grimacing. Whether that be in guilt or commiseration, he can’t tell.

 

“Yeah, man. I mean, I’ve done plenty of things I should be dead for, so I can’t really tell you how to live your life or judge you for your past decisions. Honestly, I don’t really care. The Avengers have what we need, so we’re gonna _get it_.” Deadpool doesn’t need to verbalize the silent _“whatever the cost”_ for Loki to understand the threat.

 

“And what, pray tell, is it that you need so desperately?” Loki asks, sarcasm dripping from his lips like blood.

 

Deadpool and Spider-Man exchange a look, falling silent. A pigeon in the rafters flutters its wings and caws pathetically. Outside, a truck rolls past on the street. Deadpool turns on his heel and stomps back to the crate to piece his guns back together without a word. He’s considerably less calm or loving about it this time. Spider-Man, on the other hand, goes rigid, his feet rooted to the concrete like tree trunks.

 

Loki raises an eyebrow. Well, that certainly wasn’t the foreseen reaction.

 

“You two are ridiculous,” he grumbles under his breath. He expected as much of Deadpool after all the tales he’s heard of his unhinged mental state, but Spider-Man? He thought he’d be less so than his contemporary. Instead, they’re both equally confusing and aggravating.

 

Loki focuses on his breathing as Spider-Man stalks away, and Deadpool jams the pieces of his artillery together as if they personally offended him. Eventually, his eyes drift closed, his thoughts overtaking him.

 

There was a time while he was still in London that he contemplated his reason for being here. He doesn’t remember most of his memories of that time, due to Billy, but he knows what it felt like the first time he’d had a moment of clarity, a brief taste of sweet lucidity. He’d picked up the first book he could find, the first book of the day, skimming the dusty pages for anything and everything he could grasp, and it was then, as he huddled in the corner of the library, that he first _felt it_. He couldn’t explain it — _still_ can’t. That... that _feeling_ , it was bittersweet. It was as though it was reaching into the depths of his very being, twisting his heart in its grip and whispering soothing words into his ear with the same breath. It was achingly familiar. Like coming home.

 

He hasn’t felt it since. The next day, Billy found him.

 

He’d opened a floodgate of sorts, and he hasn’t been able to keep fragments of that feeling from creeping into his head. He came to New York with the intention of digging up everything he could find on the phenomenon. He hasn’t recovered much, but he can sense that it’s steadily nearing, emerging, whatever planted the sensitivity in him. He just hasn’t been able to let it further with time, to grow.

 

And now he’ll never be able to.

 

Loki’s hand twitches and — _oh._ Yes. Yes, he’s angry _._ No, he’s a bit beyond angry now — _furious_. He can feel the anger seeping out of his pores in black goo, his skin prickly and oily at the same time, and his mouth is dry at the overwhelming sensation. The smell of it is pungent. For a terrifying, brief moment, he considers what it might cost him to burn the warehouse down, him along with it.

 

_“He’ll come back; he always does.”_

 

To be angry is a great feeling. It’s comfortable. It’s an emotion Loki is familiar with, so different from what he felt in the library in London. It fits his being like a glove: snugly, as though tailored to him specifically. He can get lost in its miles of consequences, revert to a wilder, angrier version of himself. That should scare him, but it doesn’t. He’s been angry his entire life; he’s used to it.

 

One thing Loki admires about Midgard is its diversity. On Asgard, to conform is to be beautiful. The planet has set roles for all of its children, and Loki is no exception. Thor and Odin never seemed to mind the ridiculous functions of their people’s hierarchy, let alone the professional norms, but it doesn’t sit well with Loki. He was never adequate when compared to the glowing image of his elder brother. For a while, he tried to assimilate, to play the part given him, but he soon came to find that he will never — No, _can_ never be what the people want.

 

Earth is vastly different. Loki appreciates the variety, the miscellany of bodies so unique they play off each other. He embraces the ever-changing opinions, ideas, and freedom of today’s youth.

 

Sometimes Loki imagines what it would mean if he were born on this planet instead. He likes to believe that he would have ended up in a better place.

 

Preferably not abducted and tied to a chair, that’s for sure.

 

“How long?” Deadpool speaks up, now perched on the crate. Loki’s attention is drawn to his lap, where he’s sharpening one of his many knives.

 

Spider-Man has moved to another part of the warehouse beyond Loki’s line of vision, but he replies nonetheless. “Shouldn’t be very long. Mr. Stark said he’s sending Rhodey over.”

 

Loki’s lip curls in an involuntary snarl. Deadpool pauses in his work. “What?”

 

“How endearing,” Loki sneers. “Of course he wouldn’t come himself.”

 

“He’s Iron Man; he’s a busy dude,” Deadpool shrugs.

 

“I was assuming you were going to take me to the Avengers yourselves. How are you sure you’re going to get what you need this way?”

 

There is no retort. The pigeon starts up its sad song from the rafters once more, its lonely voice echoing throughout the empty warehouse.

 

Loki shifts so he can feel his left arm again. Pins and needles are crawling up to his elbows. The building is cold, damp. The temperature is quickly dropping as the sun wanes in the sky, preparing for bed. It licks at his skin through his sweater and jeans. Soon enough, it will be dark, and Loki is going to miss his dinner date.

 

Like before, there is a thump from outside, followed by the bang of the door hitting the wall. It’s a deafening contrast to the quiet of the warehouse. Loki waits, pensive.

 

Deadpool throws the knife in his hand in a blur of motion and it bounces off something with a horrendous clang, sliding back over to him via the ground. He stands abruptly, stance defensive. “Glad you finally decided to join us, old man,” he greets, falsely cheerful.

 

War Machine doesn’t seem to appreciate that. “Just tell me how and why you have Thor’s evil twin tied up over there.” His voice is mechanic, and the artificial exhale that follows is most likely a sigh.

 

“He’s been in New York for some time,” Spider-Man explains, materializing beside Deadpool again.

 

War Machine comes around Loki’s side, appearing to size him up. Even with the discretion of his suit, Loki gets the impression he’s not enthusiastic about what he finds. “I know.”

 

“You _knew_?” Spider-Man is incredulous.

 

“Uh, kid, no offense, but it’s kinda my _job_ to know. After everything that’s happened... Anyway, it would be stupid not to keep tabs on people labeled possible threats. We’ve been tracking this kid here for close to a year now.” He jabs a thumb in Loki’s direction, who is filled with slight horror at that particular thought. It would not be half so bad had he known he was being watched. Norns, he _should_ have. That’s very well within the ambit of his power.

 

But the point is that he _wasn’t_ aware of it happening, and that’s concerning in its own right.

 

Spider-Man visibly flounders. “Well, why didn’t you _catch_ him then?”

 

War Machine clasps the Spider on the shoulder gently. He is much smaller in comparison to the big, clunky battle suit. “He’s not our top priority.”

 

Loki is a bit taken aback by that, he must admit. Sure, he’s changed his ways for the most part, swapping world-domination for purse snatching and convenience store stealing, but he’s still the guy that _formed the Avengers_. You’d think they would give him more credit than this.

 

“What are you two doing with him, anyway?” War Machine implores, to which Loki chuckles. All eyes turn towards him (again, this is assuming Deadpool is looking _at_ him).

 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. Unfortunately, the idiots in red don’t appear willing to talk about it.”

 

“Maybe not with you,” War Machine derides. Loki simply blinks.

 

“Well, uh, see, the thing is...” Spider-Man fidgets, wrapping his arms around himself in a way that is strangely vulnerable. It’s the least confident Loki has ever seen him. “We need your help with—well, not _your_ help. No offense.” War Machine does not move, but Loki gets the feeling he’s frowning. “Uh, just your resources. We’re kinda dealing with this... _thing_ , and we need to figure it out before it becomes one of _your_ things.” He finishes by waving his hands in a _tada_ gesture.

 

“Well, that was awfully vague,” Loki comments.

 

War Machine puts his hands on his hips but does not say anything for several long seconds. When he finally does, Loki cannot hear more than a few murmured words from his seat more than five feet away. Spider-Man nods along, offering a few sentences of his own. Deadpool is quiet. That is odd in and of itself.

 

At last, the three men reach a consensus, and War Machine gives Loki one long, lingering look before activating his jets and quite literally blasting through the ceiling. Bits and pieces of the roof collapse inward, sheet metal and wood landing in rather large chunks on Loki. He doubles over in his seat with a hiss.

 

“Oops! Sorry,” Deadpool apologizes over the noise, rushing forward to unbury him. Hurriedly, he brushes the debris away.

 

“ _Thanks_ ,” Loki snaps sarcastically. The mercenary laughs something manic as he roughly swats the splinters from Loki’s hair and tugs a little too hard on his ear. “ _Ow_. What was _that_ for—?!”

 

“Nothing. I didn’t do anything—”

 

Spider-Man interrupts them by hurling a piece of wood across the warehouse, where it shakes the entire structure when it crashes against the opposite wall. “I can’t believe this!” he heaves angrily, shoulders hunched and fists clenched. Loki peeks at him around Deadpool’s body to see him start pacing back and forth. Everything about his form screams _danger_. “What a _douche_ bag. He’s not even gonna listen to us? We’re doing this to _help_ them!”

 

Deadpool’s face is stony. He sweeps the dust from Loki’s sweater and pats at his head, to which Loki recoils in disgust. “I could’ve told you that,” he mumbles softly. It’s maybe even a tad bitter.

 

“But I don’t get it! Why do they have sticks up their asses?”

 

“Everyone likes different things—”

 

“ _Shut up_ ,” Spider-Man barks, and Deadpool thwacks him. Loki purses his lips. Tough crowd.

 

“What are we supposed to do _now_? And what about _him_?” Spider-Man spits the word as though venom, chucking a wood splinter at Loki. It bounces off his forehead and lands on the floor harmlessly.

 

“Hey! Don’t damage the product!” Deadpool chastises. He rubs Loki’s face in soothing circles with the pads of his gloves. The material is rough, and despite his best intentions, is not soothing at all.

 

“How about letting me go?” Loki bites Deadpool’s finger when he ventures a bit too close to his mouth, and the mercenary stumbles back with a yelp. “Or were you planning on keeping me here for the rest of eternity?”

 

Deadpool cradles his hand against his chest delicately. “That’d be boring and not very like us.”

 

“And we aren’t even sure you’re...” Spider-Man hesitates, his temper ebbing and his earlier uncertainty returning.

 

Loki raises his eyebrows. “I’m what?”

 

“Evil...”

 

Loki stares in complete incomprehensibility. Perhaps he didn’t hear that correctly. Did the debris hit his head a bit too hard?

 

“The both of you are aware of who I am,” he articulates carefully.

 

“Not really,” Deadpool steps into Loki’s space again, and Loki, still bound, cannot kick him in the balls when he takes his face in his hands and squishes his cheeks together. That doesn’t stop Loki from spitting, though. “Eheh, nice try, kid. But I’m wearing a mask, remember? And be careful; I might be into that.” He chuckles, and Loki is reminded of just how deep his voice is.

 

“Of course you would be, you perverted old man.”

 

Deadpool grins. “I’m not that old. You’re just little. And tiny.” He pulls at Loki’s cheeks to emphasize his tininess.

 

“Those are the same words.”

 

Spider-Man suddenly claps his hands together. “Enough is enough!” he announces loudly, spooking Deadpool out of his face-rubbing. “Screw them. If they won’t be bothered to listen to us, then let them rot for all I care!” He begins picking up the wood scattered around them and piling it next to Loki’s chair.

 

“Yeah! If they want all of hell all up in their business, so be it!” Deadpool joins him, and soon a small pyre of wood is lying innocently on the cement.

 

Loki glances over at it cautiously, a weak laugh falling from his lips. “Asgardians don’t _actually_ burn their runaway captives—” Deadpool spins his chair with a foot around the leg, effectively shutting Loki’s rambling down. Loki feels him untying the rope around his wrists with quick and easy efficiency. Soon after, he follows by ripping it from Loki’s ankles as well. His breath catches in his throat. “That’s just a myth. I’m not even—”

 

“Strip.”

 

Loki chokes on his spit. “Excuse me?” A hand to his shoulder pushes him to his feet, and he wobbles a bit. “I don’t—”

 

“You don’t have much time,” Deadpool whispers, leaning over his shoulder. His breath is hot against Loki’s neck. “Iron Dick Jr. could change his mind any time now; lose the sweater and you’re good as gold, kid.”

 

Loki huffs. “How many times do I have to say I’m not a—” he squeaks as Deadpool bunches the hem of his sweater in his hands and pulls at it impatiently. Mortified, Loki attempts to wriggle away, but Deadpool is a lot stronger than he is. He’s got the sweater up and over Loki’s head before he can properly grasp what’s just happened. “What the—”

 

“Nice seeing ya. Now _go_.” He shoves Loki away as Spider-Man prepares the pyre, and soon enough, orange and red flames are streaming from the wood. Deadpool tosses Loki’s sweater on top.

 

The last Loki sees of them, Spider-Man is glaring into the fire, and Deadpool is thrusting him out the door, a hand suspiciously close to his ass. Then he’s outside, in the biting October cold, shirtless, and with more questions than answers.

 

Again, perhaps he should’ve taken Billy’s advice. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope u liked it! leave me a comment + kudos :D


	4. Mr. Pool's Apartment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yeah, I got that much. No way you're here to bone me — Not that I was thinking about it! Uh, 'cause that's never happened. Okay, maybe once, but it was a dream, and that was before I knew how old you are. Oh, wait, that sounds really bad. I mean, before. When you were evil. And bigger. Now you're small. How did that happen, anyway?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loki stay off rooftops challenge: failed.
> 
> I wrote this entirely in one sitting. I apologize for any typos or crazy stuff that may or may not happen because my brain-to-anything functions are like not working right now. 
> 
> But hey! I updated! Yay me! (I'll edit later ehe)

 

Loki is going to get sick and die of hypothermia, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t figure out what the Hel is going on. He's going to put an end to this affair first and foremost, as soon as he's in the clear. He'll pack his bags and vanish, free. Wash his hands of the matter.

 

Curse his raging curiosity.

 

A shiver wracks through his body, and he doubles over in pain. His fingers and toes are going numb, and, embarrassingly, so are his nipples. He’s glad Deadpool let him keep his pants, at least, but that isn’t going to matter much when he’s lying on his deathbed tomorrow morning, coughing up both his lungs. Or running around the city with nipples that could poke someone’s eye out.

 

He rubs at his arms in a weak attempt to warm himself. The wind is blowing straight through him, and up here on the roof, it’s only made worse by the elevation. Desperately, he wishes he could “poof” a blanket of the thickest, warmest variety to wrap around his shoulders and disappear inside. Maybe he could start a fire to properly burn himself alive, too.

 

But alas, Loki is unable to do either — the former because his body is going into shock, and the latter because Deadpool might very well smell the burning flesh or, worse yet, spot him. So, Loki must resort to futilely rubbing at his bare arms pathetically and wishing an asteroid would crush him six feet into the ground.

 

On the street below, Deadpool is jogging at a speed that should be inhuman. Loki follows as quickly as he can under the circumstances, barely managing to keep the red-and-black blob from disappearing altogether. It's a lot more difficult than he imagined.

 

See, one thing he's never been good at is heeding advice. So when Deadpool told him to split, pushing him from the warehouse, Loki did the exact opposite. He stuck. To the wall of a building across the street, to be precise. He waited for Spider-Man to pop his head out the door, blue quickly matching red, and waited some more for the hero to shoot a web and swing away.

 

Not long after, Deadpool followed his companion, though he traded web-swinging for running. And now Loki is stalking behind him by rooftops, nearly tumbling over at every gust of wind. Whether he likes it or not, he craves the knowledge Deadpool stuffed in his pea-sized brain. And Loki is going to get it. Damn the consequences.

 

He doesn’t know much about Spider-Man, Deadpool even less. He’s heard stories, of course, and he catches the news from time to time because this is _New York_ and there's always some grand catastrophe waiting to happen. But he doesn’t know much else besides A) the Spider is an uptight vigilante with an aversion to killing, labeled a “menace” by _The Daily Bugle_ , and B) Deadpool is an unhinged mercenary capable of killing the entire universe if properly motivated. Spider-Man also enjoys using the term "douche bag," Deadpool has some kind of petting fetish, and the two can communicate semi-telepathically.

 

That's about it. While he's come across them, frequently pictured together, in his research, no one has been able to pinpoint the reason they associate in the first place. He wouldn’t put blackmail past Deadpool, but he doubts Spider-Man would allow it. And as far as Loki's heard, Deadpool has a weird Spidey-worshipping thing going on, so he wouldn't dare to begin with.

 

The real question, the one that’s been eating away at the underside of his brain for the better part of a week now, is what the two know of _him_. They’re obviously ignorant of his... _predicament_. The Avengers and X-Men were made aware of it after his fall-out with the daftly-titled _Young Avengers_. Wiccan made it his point to fill Iron Man in on all the juicy details of Loki’s reincarnation and well-timed betrayal. Well, what he knew of it, anyhow.

 

No one bothered to update the idiots in red, it appears.

 

Usually, that wouldn't be a problem, but now they’ve concluded that they don’t need Loki anymore, and that leaves Loki in a sticky situation. On the one hand, he would prefer not to tangle with them again. On the other, his curiosity is piqued. Perhaps, whatever it is they’re hunting could help him. By all means, if the Avengers won’t, maybe their enemies will be more gracious.

 

He’s considered it before. It’s a dangerous line to toe, especially because if he’s recognized alongside masks of any kind again, word will spread on the grapevine and he’ll find himself facing a council of wrinkly, preposterous old men drugged on their own testosterone.

 

It isn’t the best idea he’s ever had, but he’s pulling at straws here. What’s some light stalking in the grand scheme of things?

 

Ahead, Deadpool rounds a corner. Loki, three blocks behind, picks up his pace. By the time he’s reached the same side street, however, Deadpool has vanished.

 

As to be expected. He suppresses the urge to smile when the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.

 

“You suck at this,” Deadpool’s voice comes from behind him, and Loki, despite himself, still manages to jump at the sound. He turns slowly to find the mercenary leaning against an air vent in a way that can only be described as faux coy.

 

“Whatever do you mean by that?” he returns, an innocent smile tugging at his wind-chapped lips.

 

“Everything. This whole ‘living’ thing in general.” He employs air quotes, and his gloves make an odd, leathery noise at the movement. Like the upholstery in the one and only Uber Loki sat in (and was promptly kicked out of. Terrible service, he must admit).

 

The wind whips his hair about his face a bit. He has to fight to keep his arms from wrapping around his upper body, instead choosing to fix them behind his back, out of sight and out of mind. He gets the impression Deadpool is frowning.

 

"Yes, well, one tends to lose interest in life when it's as bleak as mine," Loki replies loftily. There's a bit of truth to that that he thinks Deadpool can appreciate. Whether the mercenary does or not, Loki is none the wiser.

 

"Word, brother," Deadpool salutes. "What are you doing here?"

 

"I was following this creepy old guy back to his hidden lair, but my fun's been rudely interrupted."

 

"For shame."

 

"Indeed."

 

"And what do you want with creepy old guys?" Deadpool indulges him. "They're bad news, 'specially for such sweet little things like you. You're basically flashing me right now."

 

Loki purses his lips, giving the man a look. "And whose fault might that be?"

 

Deadpool lets out a soft, humorous chuckle. "Yeah, sorry 'bout that. The whole fire thing was on the party invite, but we didn't have your mailing address. Besides, we were so sure Dick Jr. was gonna take us up on the offer that we hadn't put much thought into our Plan B."

 

"Not the researching type, I take it."

 

"Not much researching _to_ do. Tony Stark has the most secure server in the country. Not even the government can tap that. We'd have to use Strange's mind-reading powers or catch one of those shitty magitians miming in Gramercy Park and — hey, aren't you cold?"

 

As though the universe is listening in on their conversation, a handful of puffy white specks flutter from the heavy clouds hanging in the sky. One lands on Loki's shoulder, and his body gives a resulting convulsion.

 

Deadpool pushes off the air vent and tentatively takes a step forward, a hesitant hand outstretched. "You're going to get sick."

 

Loki bristles, finally caving and folding his arms around himself again. He takes a step of his own backward, and Deadpool's hand drops. "That is not important. I need to know what you intend to do now."

 

"Why?"

 

To his irritation, Loki doesn't have an answer to that. He'd like to say it's for his own safety, fool himself into believing it's a precautionary method. But at the heart of it all, it's just Loki and his insationable curiosity. He can't just _say_ that, though. On principle, Loki prides himself on not being honest very often. It makes it worth something when he is.

 

Thankfully, Deadpool saves him the mental ulcer. "Less talking, more moving the man-child somewhere that has central heating," he mutters to himself. He reaches into his utility belt and from it emerges a small, flat packet of sorts. He startles Loki by smacking it against his open hand vigorously, and it makes a crackling noise. He tosses it, Loki catching it with ease. It's very warm in his numb hands.

 

"What is it?" Loki asks curiously.

 

"A heating pad. It'll keep you somewhat warm until we can get someplace else."

 

"Someplace else...?"

 

Deadpool spins around in lieu of responding and makes a bee-line for the fire escape on the other side of the roof. Loki trails after him, bewildered.

 

"Where are you going? We need to talk!" Loki cries and is aware he sounds all of his measly eighteen years.

 

Deadpool's head has disappeared down the ladder, but Loki can hear him perfectly when he snorts and says, "That's the plan, kid."

 

 _"I'm not a_ — oh, fuck off."

 

The mercenary's manic laughter can be heard seven blocks over, probably.

 

* * *

 

Mr. Pool takes him to a delapidated building in danger of collapsing. Located not far from the alley of their first meeting, it isn't much different from Loki's apartment. The chief difference lies in the fact that Loki has a key to his place and doesn't routinely kick the door in.

 

"Are you sure you live here?" he questions as he shuffles into the apartment after Deadpool and all five of his senses are assaulted.

 

The smell he notices first: it's stale, dusty, as though breathing it in will immediately give him asthma. Or lung cancer. Or both.

 

The smell is also somewhat familiar. There's the underlying hint of gunpowder, the stench of week-old takeout containers he's becoming personally acquainted with (frozen burritos, while delicious, are beginning to rot his stomach, so he's switching things up with Chinese occasionally). Beneath all of that, though, is the musk Deadpool carries around like a second skin; the scent of leather and sweat and kooky that shouldn't interest Loki.

 

A quick glance at his surroundings shows him there are roughly two dozen pizza boxes stacked in one corner and a violently stained La-Z-Boy in the other, and that's it in the furniture department. On the chair lies a pink unicorn stuffie. Loki stares at it, not quite able to place why its presence unsettles him so much, or what's wrong about the picture.

 

"Sometimes. Haven't been to this one in a while, though." Deadpool clanks something down onto the small slab of countertop near the door, but his guest doesn't take notice. Loki finds himself glued to the muddy shag carpet, blinking at the hundreds of bullet holes piercing the grimy walls.

 

"What are those?"

 

Deadpool looks up, and his attention drifts to the markings in question. "That was Friday night. Wild time. Shoulda been there. You seem like the party animal type."

 

Loki absorbs that slowly. Friday night? Were those bullets used to kill someone? "I'm a better dancer than any one of you mortals."

 

"Hips don't lie, baby. You'll have to show the world sometime. Go on Ex-Villains Got Talent or something. Now, sit down and get comfy. I'll find you something to put on so your nips don't freeze off." He sets off down the hall, narrowly missing the flush that overtakes Loki's cheeks.

 

He scowls as he shoves the unicorn stuffie to the side so he can sit. While the apartment is musty and gross, it's significantly warmer than outside. Loki's beginning to thaw out, relax in increments. He doubts Deadpool poses any real threat unless triggered, and Loki has no intention of doing any such thing. He'll get what he came for: a talk. Deadpool's favorite activity.

 

The man of the hour returns with the largest "I ♡ NYC" sweatshirt in the most obnoxious shade of teal Loki's ever seen. He recognizes it in an instant. These parasites litter street vendors and gift shops all over the city. Only annoying tourists or persons without an ounce of self-respect buy them.

 

Or immortal mercenaries by the name of Deadpool, apparently.

 

"Sorry, it's the only thing I have here." Deadpool hands the sweatshirt over, and Loki takes it gingerly, his nose scrunched. "Don't act so offended! These things are great! Who doesn't love the Big Apple?"

 

"Anyone who lives in it," Loki bites.

 

"Jinkies. Anyway, put it on. I can't stand looking at you."

 

Loki's eyebrow quirks. "Why's that?"

 

Deadpool, standing in front of the chair, shifts his weight. "Well, uh, 'cause. You know."

 

"I don't."

 

"Don't try to play cute, kid."

 

"I wish you would—"

 

"What? Stop saying that? Not gonna happen!"

 

"I was going for 'die,' but that works too, I guess."

 

"Oh, how you wound me." Deadpool slaps a hand against his chest in anguish. "Can't you see I'm bleeding?" Suddenly, he bursts into song with, _"I keep bleeding, I keep, keep bleeding the love,"_ and Loki closes his eyes out of sheer exasperation.

 

"I realize this was my idea, but by Norns am I now seeing the error of my ways."

 

" _Your_ idea?"

 

Loki nods, and a smirk grows where it has no right to be. "All part of the evil mastermind plan, remember?"

 

"I thought you were a good guy. Sort of."

 

"I am many things, Mr. Pool."

 

Deadpool makes a vague gesture with his hands, then grunts. "Just put the damn sweatshirt on so I don't have to see you half-naked. Sheesh."

 

Loki's grin turns derisive. "Whatever you say." He pulls the monstrosity over his head (some difficulty there, considering his injured, untreated arm) and a shudder ripples through him as he feels the thick material drag over his gooseflesh. When his face pops free of the hood, Deadpool has slid three feet away and is frowning.

 

"Now, what do you want?" His tone is all business.

 

Loki draws his knees to his chest and the sweater over them. Cocooned, he lays the heating packet over his stomach and sighs in pleasure. Finally, he gives the merc a lazy smile. "To talk."

 

"Yeah, I got that much. No way you're here to bone me — Not that I was thinking about it! Uh, 'cause that's never happened. Okay, maybe once, but it was a dream, and that was before I knew how old you are. Oh, wait, that sounds really bad. I mean, before. When you were evil. And bigger. Now you're small. How did that happen, anyway?"

 

"I was reincarnated," Loki supplies helpfully, biting his lip to reign in the laugh that wants to break free.

 

The whites of Deadpool's mask grow large (how is that possible?). "Whoa. Talk about Freaky Friday up in here. How's that work? Who killed you?" Loki points a finger at himself, raising his eyebrows as if to say _'tada!'_ "You killed _yourself_?" Loki nods. "And came back?" _Nod_. "That's..." he pauses, searching for the right word. He settles on "radical," and plops onto the floor, criss-cross applesauce.

 

"Thank you...?" Loki says, though it's more of a question than a statement. "But gossiping is not why I'm here."

 

"Bummer. I got loads of dirt on Spidey."

 

"I don't doubt it. You two seem very... close."

 

Deadpool beams, perking up. "You think? That's nice to know. I can never tell. This stupid brain of mine hates me."

 

Loki is familiar with the feeling. "I'd like to know what it is you and the Spider-Man are snuffing out."

 

"Uh, why?"

 

" _Because_ ," Loki stresses, but he doesn't know much else to say besides _'I'm a bastard that doesn't know when to mind his own business.'_ Or the less appreciated, _'I'm going to use you to bring this form to its true potential.'_

 

Deadpool rubs at his neck and is quiet for a minute. "Wouldn't hurt to tell him," he whispers to no one. His eyes rake over Loki (it feels that way, anyhow) and he makes a sound of distress. "He could be taken out with one punch, dude. Not cool. Let's just warn him."

 

Loki leans forward in the La-Z-Boy, his feet dropping to the shag. "Who are you talking to?"

 

"No one." Deadpool flaps a hand dismissively. Then, "You been watching the news lately?"

 

Loki shrugs. He doesn't. Not _really_. He only pays attention if it has something to do with Thor or, more recently, the idiots in red. He doesn't care for the media and its endless campaign to tear down the little guy. And Loki is very much a little guy now. A little boy playing in the big league. He's going to get squashed like those ants.

 

"Doesn't matter anyway," Deadpool huffs, "'cause you wouldn't see anything. The media is biased as hell — who knew, right? They won't cover the shit that matters."

 

"Which is?"

 

"People are disappearing, dropping like flies right and left, but the media doesn't give a crap! Why? Because they only want to see Iron Man. The good guys. Screw the bad ones that are probably being brainwashed and turned into vampire juice. It's seriously messed up."

 

"Wait, slow down," Loki frowns. "How do you know about this, then?"

 

Deadpool scratches his left cheek. "I like to stay informed," he intones mysteriously.

 

Loki rolls his eyes. "What does a mercenary care if a few of the so-called 'bad guys' are retiring in the Bahamas?"

 

"Because _I'm_ a bad guy!" Deadpool hollers, and Loki nearly falls out of the chair. "And it's never a good sign when this stuff happens. It could mean a lot more than a vacation by the beach. I've been a pawn too long; I'm not doing it again."

 

Loki isn't sure what to say to that. They sit in silence, stewing, inhaling the black mold spores and century-old dust particles floating about them. Loki leans back wearily, not caring about the suspicious stains on the fabric. His body is drained. He's two blinks away from falling asleep.

 

"You okay there, bud?" Deadpool's voice is reserved.

 

"Oh, just on the verge of a coma. No biggie."

 

"That's not good."

 

Loki's stomach lurches sideways unexpectedly. He places a hand to his forehead to check his temperature. It's hot and sticky against his palm. " _Fantastic_ ," he grits through his teeth sarcastically. He stands and moves to pull the odious sweatshirt off, but a hand to his bicep stops him.

 

Deadpool is there, big and tall and ominous. Loki tips his head back to gape at him. "What are you doing?" he inquires, concerned.

 

Loki blinks. "This is yours. I'm giving it back."

 

"Yeah, no. I just stole it from a gift shop in Spanish Harlem."

 

"That explains the horrible taste."

 

Deadpool throws his head back and laughs, loud and bright. "Jesus, your tongue. Anyone ever tell you you've got an attitude problem?"

 

"That's surprising coming from you."

 

"Ah, so you've heard of me."

 

"I like to stay informed," Loki smirks.

 

Deadpool giggles — _actually_ giggles. "Keep the thing. You're gonna die going out there without it, and it's not like _I_ want it. While you're at it, do us all a favor and wear layers. Never know which creepy old guy's gonna make you strip." Somehow, the mask winks. The merc's grip on Loki's arm loosens, and he pats the smaller boy's head gently, carding his glove through the stringy black strands. "Do you even wash your hair, dude?"

 

Loki can't be bothered to hiss in disgust. "Yes. Now let me go."

 

Deadpool raises his arms in surrender. "I know a great hair place if you're ever in the neighborhood. Just tell 'em 'ol Wade sent you."

 

Loki flattens his rumpled hair. "Who's that?"

 

"That's me. Wade Wilson, at your service." He gives a half-assed bow with a wide grin. Loki finds himself smiling too.

 

"Well, now that we're properly introducing ourselves..." Loki bows as well, "Loki."

 

"Just Loki? Like Cher?"

 

"I don't know who that is."

 

"Honey, you've got a big storm coming."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i want to write a spidey/deadpool/loki fic cuz no one else will
> 
> this fic: /:
> 
> me: 
> 
> this fic: make spidey an unimportant side character
> 
> me: wh-


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